


Demolished Purity

by kyloewok



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angel Kink, Blasphemy, Blood Play, Bondage, Brief wax play, Choking, Degradation, Dom/sub, Edging, Exhibitionism, F/M, FaceFucking, Forbidden Kiss, Forced Orgasm, God Kink, God is absolutely nowhere to be found, Holy Water, Knife Play, Noncon Voyerism, Priest!Kylo, Purely unholy filth, Repent your sins, Rosary Play, Sex on the alter, Slapping, Teasing, blowjob, confessional box sex, cross fucking, dubcon, instructional masturbation, praising, pussy eating, rosary beads, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29348262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyloewok/pseuds/kyloewok
Summary: My prized Priest!Kylo one-shots (two parts) condensed into the archive.A young, sinful girl seeks guidance from her Lord, but she's struggling to grapple whether her devotion to God is as prominent as her infatuation with Father Ren.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader
Kudos: 10





	1. Dirty Deeds

The chapel was a godless solitude. Doused in sin, and heinous virtues. The befouled, mahogany beams buttressing the elevated, chipping ceiling of the church, groaned boisterously with melancholia. It was intoxicating, as the scents of your sinful immoralities loitered in the tarnished air, that reeked of the coaxed lies of the bible.

The ivory of your mollified, brittle joints pierced the skin of your knuckles, as you braced the leather surface of His virtuous book in your clammy digits. 

Bristling down the slender aisle, illuminated by the moons misanthropic glow bestowed upon the ornately architected dormer windows, the lows murmurs of your negligence of God sheathed the walls of your swollen brain. 

The celtic cross beamed down at you with an ominous snicker of His judgment. Mounted to the peeling wallpapered walls, the sapphire hue of the moons mellow wrath articulated silhouettes of His sainthood along the belching, tiled floors.

The ravenous breeze, elicited the howl of swaying tree-limbs, as the faint tap of a delicate branch poking the window reverberated around the quaint cubicle of pitiful faith and dejected hope. 

All of your moralities were just rubbish— shards of fragile, bloodied glass, that crunched nefariously beneath the soles of your lustrous boots. Trepidation bled through the cavernous gap of reluctance electrifying your veins, for instead of fearing His punishment due to your sinful exploits, you embraced your unscrupulous deeds, with welcoming arms, and a rosary dangling from your dainty neck. 

Crows bleated off in the distance, swarming the victorian, unlenient building, as the carcass of the church squelched in agony. Dust swirled in ornate patterns around your booted feet, as you calmly staggered to a halt before the chipping, splintered podium. 

Apprehensions clouded your mind of steel, as you inhaled the abhorrent scent of ash and embers, as smoke billowed from the auburn-glinted tips of votive candles perched upon the stone altar. 

The rustic floorboards croaked as you rustled with the silky, floor-length skirt swathing your modesty, crouching tediously to be kneeling before the pedestal of your Lord. 

Your viceful grasp on His marginal book of undiplomatic preferences and rules of the anatomy of human kind, and His desired exploits of his sinless children, tightened.

Instead of shielding your dubiously faltering soul, the beaded rosary garbing your neck only weighed down your sanity and saturated it with vile salaciousness.

"Lord," Your hoarse voice quaked with unease, ricocheting off of the pious walls of the chapel, where infernal prosperities sulked beyond the feigned saintitude of flaking wallpaper. "My Lord, please forgive me—" You gulped down your inculpation, "For I have sinned."

Coyness embroidered itself into your tumulus tone, as your rasps of humiliation liquified your dignity, and painted the beams of the chapel in sinful shades of remorse with your impurity. 

The perspiring, fiendish expanse of your forearms trembled, as you embraced His black, ethical book. You could feel the burns of His refusal scorning your skin, as you only tightened your embrace, yearning for His gratifying acceptance and seamless forgiveness. 

"Please," you wailed through a harbored breath of lament. "Please, Lord, douse my sin with your endearment. Be the light to the darkness that has filtered my dedication for you, Lord."

Your nails embedded crescent dents into the black leather encompassing His tainted pages of devout. Your heart murmured in your chest, pulsating in your withered throat. 

When the Lord disregarded your pleads, and lacked the tolerance of your crudely venereal actions, you emitted tendrils of raging steam through flared nostrils— before a shrill of exasperation clawed up your heaving throat, and you launched the bible across the altar, panting with extorted breaths as the leather skidded across the stone surface, crashing into the narrow line of candles.

Blasphemous thoughts were accumulating in your brittle mind— for the titanium barrier shielding your comprehension was abolished by a catapult of faithlessness. 

The Devils claws carved rivers of apathy into your delicate flesh, and they always had, only now, you refused to bandage your wounds of treachery and devotion to Him with prayers— instead you praised your infidelity. 

"That is no way to treat His book, child." A mundane, diabolical voice tsked from behind, and you jolted, your soul rapturing in the shell of your pruny skin.

You swallowed the turmoil rising in the form of bile in your throat, suppressing a scowl, and mimicking the candied smile of a nymphet, before glimpsing the habitual man from over your cloaked shoulder. 

"Good evening to you, too, Father Ren." You chirped leisurely, the tip of your tongue tweaking with sultry and allure, as he hummed navally in response.

You shifted on your blemished knees, smoothing out the silk cascading down your soft legs, as your eyelids sealed, and your lips twisted into a prudent grin, your fingertip tracing the somber face of Jesus on the cross of your rosary.

The Mephistophelian clacks of his clad oxfords sent tremors through your limbs, as they raptured the tiles with his palpable, calculated footing. Subconsciously, your heedful stature straightened extensively, at the tactile acknowledgment of his abysmal presence. 

"I presumed you would be spending your evening here," he grumbled consequentially, his thick finger tracing the curve of each slowly bypassing bench stringing along the velvet aisle. "After all, you have a lot to earn your forgiveness for." 

Your poised smirk depended chronically. "Yes, Father." You retorted lusciously, your eyelashes flittering in response to the gust of wind he produced with the bristle of his robes. "But I'm afraid the Lord has grown appalled by my vein. He refutes my pleads, Father."

He rooted his oxfords to the mosaic tiled-floor merely a breathscape away from your hunched, cowering figure. Although your eyelids quivered and yearned to peal free from the captivation of your weaving eyelashes, you only discarded your lethargic inquisitiveness and left them screwed tight. 

His calloused palm caressed the seam of your jaw and neck, where the supple flesh brimmed together, as his rough fingertips flicked your earlobe, and you shuddered at his familiar touch, your pulse quickening with temptation.

"Address me properly, child." Ren sneered, snatching the plushness of your rouge cheeks in his claws of immorality, crushing the apple of your skin as you stifled a mewl. "Address me the way a sinner like you would, little girl."

You only smiled softly, your eyelids tediously unpealing, as you peered up at him lewdly through the delicate vail of your eyelashes. "Yes, God." You mused gingerly, your voice sweet like ripe cherries and soft like the plushest of refined cottons.

"Ah," he chimed gruffly, his coiled, raven locks wisping into his porcelain face as he scowled down at you, a wildfire of inclination pooling in his honey-speckled irises. "There's that naughty girl."

You hummed benignly, as Father Ren found himself enraptured by the fatal darkness of your Hellion gaze, suppressing the need to brace your skull and crush your bones until they were just fragments of purity. 

The tint jeering through his robes was optimal, only your eyes lingered on his hazel, salacious, moonstone orbs, as opposed to the bundle of heat scathing the innards of his muscular thighs. 

Your purity was diminutive, when it came to Father Ren, for he was the instigator of your barbaric, sensual sins— and the curator of your morality, the molder of your mushy soul of clay. The only apparition that could save you from your sins, and scorn you in the flame of them, all at once. 

Father Ren sighed monotonously, "Indulge me with your sins, child." He recoiled from you leisurely, stampeding up the marble platform, fiddling with the clerical collar of his black robe. He methodically realigned the candles you disturbed, when you lurched the bible across the chapel. 

"Will this be a confessional, Father?" You asked, glancing at the mahogany box in the northern corner of the chapel, swallowing your trepidation as you reminisced on the experience that emerged from the pits of Hell when you last entered the breached gate of a confessional booth. 

He snickered poignantly, swiping his serpentine tongue along his canines, as his eyes glazed over with diligence— raking in the virtuous cross mounted to the wall. 

"No, my dear." He quipped, his baritone voice temporal and trite. "In order for your conversion to the light of the Lord to deem successful, we're going to have to practice more effectively." He stated blandly. "Every punishment I have bestowed upon you for your sins has only pleasured you." 

The canvas of your cheeks were blemished scarlet, with the paint brush of your timidity, scorning your skin a sheepish crimson. "Father... my desire for you is unpunishable." You bleated, like a meek, wobbling lamb squabbling for its mother. "If you set me ablaze, I will only conquer the flame."

Father Ren braced the frame of his podium, his eyes narrowing into minuscule slits, as you brushed the soot articulating from the tiles off of your skirt and ascended to your feet. 

"I want you, God." Your eyes widened with feigned purity, your deviousness masked over with innocence. His jaw clenched, teeth barring together brashly, as you tip-toed up the frisky platform— until you were adjacent to the altar, and Father Ren's heaving figure. 

"The only instances in which I devouted myself to the Lord, were when you recited His prayer, and I watched your lips move—" A corrupted smirk tugged at your lips. "And I imagined the way they would feel on my cunt."

Father Ren lurched, his torrid knuckles, that were the equivalent of brass, connected with your cheek, reeling your head to the side as you squeaked. "You filthy whore!" He sputtered, and you flinched, as he gathered a wad of salvia in the back of his throat and blasted you in the face with his holy spit. 

The hot ribbon of saliva cascaded down your cheek, and you grinned diabolically, slipping your tongue past your teeth and lapping up his spit that drizzled along your skin, swallowing the foamy conjunction of mint and sins. 

His face contorted into a vile snarl, as his hand grappled with your throat, and jerked you towards his broad chest. His calloused hand annihilated the functions of your oxygen pipes, as you babbled and belched, rasping jumbled nonsense. 

He fiddled with the pocket of his cassock, and you beamed at him concupiscently, when he untucked the keen blade of a poniard— as it reflected the warm hue of the candles swaying wicker. 

"You disgust me," he seethed, waving the dagger around menacingly, as your eyes caught onto the shimmering blade. "Such a little slut, uttering these forbidden words of erotica in the Temple of our Lord?"

You only nodded into his calloused palm, boring your hooded gaze through his.

The pique restored in his tense flesh, his satin features cold and solidified, as he nipped at the skin of your jaw with the tip of his dagger— tracing the seam of your flesh, indenting a jagged crimson line, as it nearly broke the sensitive skin. 

You whimpered softly, "God, please."

In response to your blubbering, immoral whine, he slit a lumpy ribbon of crimson flesh into your throat, and you gasped indignantly. 

"When will you learn, child?" He mumbled with a crestfallen sneer, his rough finger protruding the wound blossoming on your throat, smearing the scarlet liquid seeping from the gash up to your jaw and cheeks as you grunted in agony— and bucked your hips into his robe-embraced member. 

His palm, blows a forceful strike upon your cheek, and you chirped in despair, as the wrath of his hand sent you plummeting into his podium. The sharp, mahogany edge thunked into your temple and you winced, sniveling. You cupped the sides of the podium to stabilize yourself, only for Father Rens hand to collide with your back side, sending you lurching forward. 

You were folded at the waist, breasts smushed into the slanted surface of the pedestal, cheek lapping to the blistering wood as lust electrified your veins, and you wiggled your hips. 

His thick fingers feathered through your hair— wrenching your now twinging, vulnerable head backwards, as you croaked out a whine and arched your back. The warm, copper-scented blood burrowed into your skin, as it trickled down your chin, and glistened off of your neck.

His fingers situated themselves with the gash, wedging into the thin gap, as your lips twisted into a pursed grimace. Blood pooled on the tips of his fingers, swathing his fingers and knuckles in a thick puddle of scarlet— you gasped when he thrusted them past your lips, the tangy, metallic flavor clogging your mouth with shades of crimson, as you swirled your tongue around his cuticles to devour the obscene taste. 

Father Ren, or your own, personal God, loomed over your body from behind like a heinous demon cradling an angel with its feathery, nefarious wings. His labored breaths wafted into your ear, his fingers pumping in and out of your mouth, his other hand planted on your hip and submerging your body with the podium. 

"What do you want, my child?" He whispered, his torrid breath fanning out your sweat-dampened baby hairs. 

"I want you, Father." You exclaimed when his fingers slipped out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting his fingertips with your lips. "I need you, my Lord." 

He hummed, wiping the saliva loitering on his fingers off on his cassock. "Spread these legs, dirty bitch." He hissed, and a trickle of aspiration bombarded your unease as he cursed at you with those perfectly refined lips of a saint. 

He pried your thighs apart, and you shuddered, as the glacial air of the chapel sent shivers of desire along the expanse of your modest, supple skin. He tediously hiked the hem of your skirt up, revealing your flesh to the quarrying eyes of the ivory sculptures of Christ. 

There was an idle moment of trepidating silence— but the silence was only temporary, for the quietude that serenitized the chapel was refurbished with your croak of astonishment— when his fist curled around the dainty beads consuming your neck, ripping them from your flesh, as the string snapped boisterously. 

He bundled your wrists together behind your arching back, twining them with the beads of your rosary, as the cross pendant swayed with the enthralled thrash of your body. 

"What would you like inside of you, little one?" Father Ren asked with faux inquisitiveness, as you squirmed in the tight restraint of the rosary. "My fingers," he murmured, tracing the damp puddle of wetness penetrating your scandalous panties— that you garnered yourself in for him. "Or would you prefer your God's cock?" 

His fingers looped around the black, lace embroidery of the panties clutching your hips, as he leisurely wisped them down your thighs, past your calves, until they plopped dully at your ankles. 

There was rustling of crisp fabric, and you braced yourself for the impact of his cock— only to be greeted with an irking amount of silence, and the lack of his magnifying touch. 

That is, before your entrance was mercilessly sheathed by a cross. You screamed, howling in lethal agony, as the cold, sharp edges scraped and slashed your walls— that clenched profusely around the hilt of the cross, as Father Ren pumped it inside of you exuberantly. 

"God!" Your moan was groggy, croaked through a hiccup, as tears brimmed your eyelids, and your cunt was ravished by the ferocious pluck of the cross ramming into your cervix, the anguish of the edges that were slicing your core and sending trickles of blood down your inner thighs eliciting another racking sob from your throat. 

"How does it feel, little girl?" Father Ren rasped, pounding the cross into your bloodied, withering core, as crimson leaked down your legs and drizzled all over the floor, coating his cassock. "How does it feel to have the face of God fucking your tight little cunt?" 

You rolled your pelvis into the thrusts of the cross, as the tip pounded into your sweet spot, the keen points ransacked your plush walls, wanton moans emitting from the depths of your chest as tears streamed down your flushed cheeks. 

"I love it, Father!" You chanted, "F-fuck, it feels so good, my Lord!"

Your legs trembled and quaked, your moans were hoarse pants and lewd shrills, as he twisted his wrist and drilled the cross deeper into your core, sending you into an oblivion of savage torment and blissful pleasure. 

The sharp strokes continued plucking your cervix, and the muscles in your thighs belched, as the warm sensation of your peek emerging caused you to squirm and moan babbled spews of unintelligible words. 

"I'm going to c-cum, Father!" You briskly gasped, drool spilling from the corners of your rouge lips, yours eyes blatantly rolling to the back of your head as your jaw went slack with your appending orgasm, the podium croaking with each painful thrust of the crucifix. 

"Whores don't get to cum, until given permission." He growled maliciously, slowing the pace of the cross inside of your core, and you groaned in despair as you felt the keen corners catch onto your walls with each leisure thrust— the rhythm that was articulating your orgasm being ripped away from you, and dismembered into thousands of tethered shreds. 

"Please, God!" You wailed, your chin quivering, as the tears cascaded down your ruby-red cheeks, painting your greasy skin in sin. "Let me cum, please, Father!" 

He fumbled with a hefty piece of glassware on the altar, as he continued teasingly pumping the hilt of the crucifix in and out, in and out, as the slickness of your arrousel seeped down your legs with the beady droplets of blood, and you moaned weakly, your body crumpling on top of the podium. 

Smoke billowed around your soaked, greasy face, and your pulse jumped when Father Ren reeled your head backwards by a clump of your hair for the second time— the cross was lodged into your core, unmoving— as he forced your head back, and adorned a slender candlestick in his hand, waving the wicker around your neck. 

"Bite." He ordered nefariously, and your eyebrows knitted together in perplexion, as he horizontally crammed the candlestick into your mouth. The auburn flame flickered in disdain merely three inches away from your cheek, and you whined into the wax stick. 

He continued pumping the cross in and out of you slowly, as he reacquainted himself with his dagger, and he gingerly grazed your thyroid. You mewled, straining your neck muscles to escape the ruthless blade, as he glided it down your collarbone, until he met the low-cut collar of your dress. 

Without reluctance nor pity, he sliced through the satin fabric, the material squelched as the thread untwined itself, and revealed your free, hardened nipples. 

He yanked the slender candlestick out of your mouth, the molten wax drizzling down the sides. Your mouth watered in ecstasy, as he increased the speed of his thrusts with the cross, striking that sensitive spot inside your core as your body writhed— your peak a few plucks of immorality away.

"Scream for your Lord." Father Ren commanded vexedly, and you shrieked navally as the scorning hot wax dribbled onto your nipples, burning the hard, swollen flesh, as you clenched repeatedly around the cross and snapped your hips back to meet it. 

"Cum, you filthy, worthless slut." 

Your entire tremoring body convulsed, spasming brashly, your toes curling in your boots, your jaw slack and your cunt squeezing the pectoral cross, as your juices spewed through your core and coated the face of the Lord. 

You collapsed into the podium, your eyelashes laced together with a thick layer of sweat, and your legs crumbled beneath you when he eased the cross out, ringlets of blood and your juices drizzling onto the floor, and lapping up on the cross. 

Father Ren slipped the hilt of the cross into his mouth, flattening the tarnished, soaked titanium on his tongue, licking it clean of your juices, as his eyes gleamed red with desire. 

Your limbs were brittle and limp, as Father Ren untwined the rosary beads swathing your wrists, revarnishing them around your thumping pulse. The molten wax was thickening, hardening on your pudgy skin, as you doused yourself in humiliation and shame.

The graceful chime of the midnight church-bell raptured the carcass of the chapel, as Father Ren hummed with a poised grin, and turned your writhing body of mush over, so that your arching back was pressed into the pedestal. 

"Open that pretty mouth." He demanded huskily, and you obliged without haste, your jaw dropping and lips parting as you blinked at him vigorously. 

He untucked an indiscernible item from his cassock. A black, satin cloth swathed a crystalized vile of Holy water, and his eyebrows wiggled in malevolence as your cheeks flushed rouge. 

"Father..." Your soft, dejected bleat trailed off, as Father Ren caressed the apple of your cheek. He tenderly tucked a tousled strand of hair behind your ear, stroking your chin with his thumb. 

"Shh, my sweet angel." He cooed. His iniquitous stare softened to doe. You purred at the ginger stroke of his fingers, losing yourself in the warm-copper of his welcoming eyes.

"Your morality has been demolished, my dear." He sighed solemnly. The grueling beast that just whipped you with the malice of his commands, vanished, as if the fear in your blown eyes made him feel a ping of guilt. "You're blessed to have a Father with a soul just as conflicted."

You nodded heedfully, your glossy, blood-shot eyes trained on his— as his whiskey-honey irises flashed like a kaleidoscope of admissible emotions. He twisted the cork of the vile off with a loud pop, his hand softly clasping your jaw and angling your chin towards the saintly architected ceilings. 

He blessed it with the swift motions of his fingers, hovering over each of his broad shoulders, his forehead, and the temple of his heart, before pouring the translucent droplets of Holy water into your mouth. The conjunction of praises floating in the murky water scorned your tongue. A burn, that heated the tip of your tongue, and the veins bound to it. You recoiled from the immense tingling sensation, whining. 

You thrashed, tears cascading down your cheeks as the Holy water elicited bolts of numbing electricity on your tongue. Father Ren's grasp on your grimacing face never relented. He stabilized your trashing head in place, gritting his teeth. Up until the droplets of Holy water fully smoldered your vocal cords.

"Take it, angel." He whispered, his earnest tone laced with righteous empathy. "Let me free you of your sins."

You sauntered into the chapel, with the expectation of being scathed in the tormenting flame of your own despair— the match endorsing the wildfire being his calloused palms, that had struck and caressed your body in hundreds of diverting ways before— only to melt at the warm, pacifying allure of his calm eyes. 

"I'm sorry, Father." You bowed your head sheepishly, as tears coated your dewy eyelashes. "Please forgive me." You whispered apprehensively, and you raked in a harsh breath, when his palm ladled your cheek and softly eased your head back up. 

"It is not I you must plead for forgiveness for, my angel." He gestured towards the skyscape of mahogany pillars, where he testified that the myths of the Lord lived past the breached splinters in the wood, and guarded the golden-etched gates of Heaven. 

You nuzzled into his touch, blinking at him coyly, your lips quivering into a prominent pout.

"For if it was up to me, we would not be damned to Hell, or marked as sinners for simply craving another's touch." 

His supply carnal words were liquefying, pouring over you like molten molasses, seeping into the cracks of your faithfulness, clouding them with forbidden infatuation. 

"I forgive you." He breathed softly, his deep voice cracking in alleviation. His creased, apathetically carved forehead leaned into yours, and you smiled dolefully, popping up on your tiptoes to press your forehead deeper into his.

His lips leisurely latched onto yours, in a deliciously supple, gratifying kiss, as your fingertips rested on the sharp edge of his jawline. "I will always forgive you," he rasped into your lips, his forehead perched on yours, as he peered down at you with those diabolically captivating, hazel eyes. "But it's God's judgment that you need to prioritize." 

You nudged your forehead away from his, as he softly titled his chin, resting it on your scalp. "I've tried Father, but I—" You choked on your own saliva, as it churned, thickening to be as ripe as honey. "My devout for God is unfeasible, with the way I feel, and think about you."

He harbored his breath in his lungs, his plump lips pursed in consideration and temptation. He pliantly pressed his lips into your forehead— a demurring kiss that loitered on the surface of your skin, before pulling away from you altogether, and adjusting his cassock. 

"If only you could devote yourself to both." He shook his head nimbly in dejection, scooping up your bible off of the frisky alter, where the slender candles shrunk copiously, and the swaying wickers faintly dulled out. "But you can't. And I trust you enough to choose the right path." 

He blessed your scathed, oxidized bible with the agile motions of his large hands, before handing it to you vigilantly. 

"I will meet you in the Sacristy," he said. "Start your readings. James one-fourteen." 

You wordlessly complied to his plain demands, wobbly collecting your footing. You tiptoed down the short, marble stairwell, His book of demolished, hypocriticalness beneath your arm. 

"Father?" You breathed, as your clammy hand curled around the titanium handle of the corridor leading to the Sacristy. He slowly pivoted to face you, his palms flattening on the surface of his podium. 

You traced the ornate, leather expanse of the bible, smirking down at it nefariously. His harsh breath from across the chapel was tactile, as he attentively watched you place the bible down on a bench, and stride towards the colossal exit of the church. 

"I'll always choose you, as my God, Father."


	2. Taste like Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After one full month of banishing the morals of your church— and one full month without the lustful dangers of Father Ren— you choose to return just for another taste of the lascivious Priest dictating the old-fashioned church. 
> 
> Only you made one mistake. 
> 
> You showed up on confessional.

The chapel was illuminated by the devoted children of the Lord. They beamed feigned smiles, chimed religious song, garbed in drab, modest cardigans and suits. Father Ren commanded the mass of saints, pacing the alter, leather bible smothered by his bulky arms— you swiped your tongue across your upper lip when you surveyed the accentuation of his muscles, poking through the concealing sleeves of his casual cassock. 

His honey, crystalline eyes were glowing with contempt as he observed the crowd. Gaze glossy with disdain, as he raked in the clusters of harmonizing churchgoers. They were the salt-of-the-earth, grainy with fragmented sin. The annual congregations were always housed with cheap excuses of "His Children." 

It was all just a facade. They guarded their true, fortuitous identities with a masquerade of civilization. Going to church was a way for them to coerce others into believing they are virtuous and dedicated. 

You were once one of those insecure, egregious people, that lied with the coaxes of the bible, to shield your true carnal self. 

Not anymore. 

You were not attending todays lecture that was articulated by the Lords paraphrases fulfilling the bible, for the scorning words printed within the condensed pages. You were attending today's mass to indulge yourself with the ironically heavenly scolds of Father Ren, as he passionately barked His lawful sequences through gritted teeth. 

He was conveying the words he skimmed over by demandingly gesturing with his big hands; that should've been engulfing your throat. His baritone voice was ominous, as he retorted and rephrased lines from the bible consequentially.

You sauntered down the aisle nearly prudently. The lengthy, velvety, burgundy rug beneath your feet scuffled and chafed against the pads of your boots. Dozens of pairs of piercing bleak eyes bored through your every movement. 

It felt like Judgement day all over again. Being picked and pried by the abhorrence of your peers. Gauged by the degradation of the bible, for indulging in things deemed as morally incorrect, unprecedented and inexplicable.

Father Ren's shielded, hazel eyes twinkled with bewilderment, as murmurs sweep over the crowd. People whispered into the ears of their companions, eyeing you scornfully. Father Ren lethargically studied the array of compact seats, clapping his bible together with a grave thud of leather. 

"Scuse me." You mumbled, as you shuffled through a condensed row of benches in the center of the chapel. "Pardon me." You frowned, voice low and earnest, as you flattened the hem of your sinfully short skirt and stumbled through people.

Your thighs brushed the clad knees of men. They shuddered at the impact, feeling the bare, supple flesh maneuver past them, as the fringe of your skirt rides up to just below the curve of your ass. You flashed apologetic smiles to them, and they swooned, fevered by the proximity of such a daring, nearly anarchic woman in the disclosed church.

Margined in these walls: you were deemed as a rebel. A warped sin. A twisted vessel. 

They all voted on banishing you from the chapel for Wednesday and Sunday services. They perceived your wardrobe as lewd and unprincipled. They found your inquisitiveness, and doubt, about the bible's claims appalling. Leading to your permanent ban, that was designed by the people that were meant to welcome and nurture you with their condemning embrace. 

You shimmed yourself in between two, middle-aged men, that reeked of cheap hair gel and stale cologne. They scoot over and flash you a ridiculed glower. One of them brushed off his blazer, adjusting the collar, as if you interfered with the way his suit clads him. 

You roll your eyes with an incompetent scoff. Sinking into the bench, crossing your arms, flashing your critical audience a glare. 

Father Ren's eyes burned with a flame of something ravenous when they flickered to you. Penetrated through you. Searing holes of familiarity, lust, hatred, and disdain through your dilating retinas. You inhaled a quivering breath, never blinking, never shying away from his heinous stare.

His satin features stretched into a deadpan, but smug expression. Dark eyebrows lifted audaciously, undereye twitching, his cracked rouge lips pursed into a hardline. 

He skewered you with that look. That deliciously salacious, carnal look. Dark and mesmerizing. Enigmatic and charming. Your heart pounded and pulsated in the back of your dry throat. Palms clammy, nails digging crescents into the damp skin.

It's been a month. 

Since you had last waltzed into the chapel with a demeanor to— successfully— tantalize Father Ren. When he had thrusted that cold, glacial, captious crucifix into your core, and poured his diabolical words over you, along with the molten wax of a slender candle. When he had succumbed to his own depravation, admitted to his flawed faith, caving in to the warmth and softness of your keen impurity. 

Lust was straining your separated bodies, now. As he blinks leisurely to recollect himself, eyes lingering on yours, narrowing pretentiously. Your libido continued to lug, and drag, and jerk, on the rope twining you to his vengeful mercy. 

It was a dangerous thing for you both.

Comparable to the other sinful equity, drugs. Another powerful, fatal flaw. 

Similar to heroine— you were the nefarious needle he craved. That he needed to be supplied his dose of euphoria. That syrupy, intoxicating escape, that filtered his veins with lethal but miraculous serotonin. 

Father Ren clears his throat gruffly, pounding his fist into his toned, cloaked chest. "Pardon me." He excuses earnestly, heedfully peeling his bible back open. He needed to snap out of it now. He needed to dehaze the fog of lustful thoughts fabricating in his mind. He needed to clear his conscious. 

He continued to recite lines from the virtuous bible, fingers skimming the blur of cordial words, lips grating them profoundly. Occasionally, his eyes would dart up to consume the attentive gazes of his loyal audience. Always flashing over to you. 

He harbored his breath in his lungs every time he glimpsed that ginger, demanding, seductive smile splaying on your supple lips. His sanity started to wither fiber by fiber, as you beamed at him with a falsely pure, innocent glow. 

Behind the podium he was mounted behind, his groin was itching with longing, his cock straining his tight pants, bulge peeking through the material. Fortunately enough, his cassock tumbled over the dent of fabric. Not enough to fully conceal his growing length. Just enough to minimize the risk of his hard on being scouted out. 

Eventually, once he performed his daily regiment of quoting the bible, he tucked his bible securely beneath his arm and adjusted his dark robes. The foyer was frisky with a desolating silence. It sent shivers up the arch of your spine, goosebumps crawling up your limbs, peppering your skin.

"Moving on." He breathes solemnly, rolling his shoulders. "Do we have any volunteers for the confessional?" 

You swore your heart paused mid-beat. Flittering and spasming robustly in your chest. Apprehensive recollections of your last experience in a confessional, with Father Ren, perturbed your mind, as the memories lodged into the forbidden sectors of your brain start to resurface. 

It was the first time he corrupted you. He coaxed the confessions out of your feeble mouth with his charm. He rebranded you with the mark of his immorality, embedding that lascivious darkness into your once heavily devoted mind. He lured you into his devilish embrace. He had fucked you, doused you in holy water, forced you to proclaim to your sins, all in the condensed walls of the confessional booth. 

A handful of arms extended in the air, waving and swaying around sheepishly. All of them yearning to release that tension of sin that crushed and smothered their chests. You on the other hand, grimaced, and ascended from the bench. Shoving and staggering through the legs of different patrons, as they grunted and recoiled from you. 

You rounded the array of benches, as every pair of eyes trained on you in befuddlement and judgmental curiosity. Once you disappeared past the threshold guiding you to the grand foyer housing the confessional booth, you sighed, alleviating the trepidation bouldering your limbs. 

You faithlessly peered up at the mahogany crucifix plastered to the wall, staring aimlessly at the diligently carved eyes of the wooden Jesus statue. You considered dropping to your knees and praying for strength— that moment of contemplation was short lived, as you scowled at your own thoughts, and swiveled around to embark on your original intentions.

You breach the Preacher sector of the confessional booth open, the creaky, polished wood squeaking at the abrupt movement. You then secure the colossal, sliding door shut. You concealed the latticed border separating the two opposing sides— the sector for the man of the house, and the sector for the meek that would soon submit to their sins and plead for forgiveness. 

The cumbersome strides of feet shuffling through the hallway reverberated around the foyer, as the enchanting door leading into the space where the confessional booth was located slowly creaks open. You grin smugly, giddily to yourself, as you lower yourself onto your knees and nestle into the corner of the booth. 

No words were exchanged between Father Ren and the conduit, as the casual sinner slips into his side of the booth. You heard him nervously cracking his knuckles, flexing his clammy digits with turmoil, raking in deep breaths. 

Then, the second door slides open. Father Ren trudges inside, emerging from the sturdy slab of wood, slamming the door shut brashly, the latch chafing defeatedly. He plops down on the bench equipped with the wall, threading his fingers through his raven, middle parted locks. 

You shift on your knees, and he tenses at the bristle of fabric. His eyes leisurely fall to you, glued on your candied face, as you bat your eyelashes at him innocently. His nostril twitches, a sneer tugging at his perfectly pink lips.

"Father Ren..." You whisper, smiling, flashing him your gleaming teeth. 

He grunts in disapproval, slumping himself slothfully into the bench. Long legs spread wide, calmly, elbows resting limply on his thighs. He beckons you with his fingers. 

"Begin your confession. Remember, there's no judgement here. Only God can decipher and judge you for your sins." Father Ren orders to the man drabbly, deadpan. Scrutinizing you with his jaw clenched as you teasingly crawl across the compact, dusty floor, kneeling in the space between his brawny legs. 

His smirk was cutthroat, as he cocked an amused brow. "Angel..." He addressed, the arch in his brow deepening disappointedly. 

The man was blabbering on and on in the opposing end of the latticed, embroidered window. Shamefully retorting his acts of "sin." Confessing to his "immoral" wrongdoings, that ranged from swearing the Lords name in vain, and indulging in self-pleasure. 

"You naughty girl..." Father Ren purred, the tip of his finger lazily ghosting your chin, angling your head up. He peered down at you from the length of his romanesque nose. Clucking his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

Your smile strengthens, body pulsating with titillation and pint up desire. You nuzzle your cheek into the innards of his thigh, that was just a slab of pure muscle. "Only for you, Father." You cooed, hand slithering up his other thigh, caressing, gliding up to his bulge.

You hiked the cassock up, tracing the outline of his dick through his tight pants. His cock jumped at the teasing confrontation of your finger, his thighs twitching, lips pursing. 

The booth was torrid with the heat of your compact bodies, radiating a lecherous warmth. He could already feel the heat of pleasurable intoxication scorching the nape of his neck, sweat pooling there, accumulating on the crevices of his skin. The proximity of your face, to his covered cock, was minimal. He mustered the control to stifle his urge to cradle you by the head and fuck your skull in. 

He swatted at your hand, and you suppressed a stunned squeak. Both hands rested on his broad thighs, smoothing out the material of his constricting pants. He snarled, shucking the rosary beads off of his neck. He pined your hands in his vice grasp, looping the beads around your wrists, shoving the rosary into your clasped hands. Keeping them twined around the cross. 

He pawed your hands off of his lap, huffing, as he snatches you by a bundle of your hair and lugs you forward. Your wrists gnaw and burn under the restraint of the rosary beads, as you rasp out a whine, your face being lurched straight into his groin. He grunts at the impact, fingers feathering through your hair, petting and combing through your locks. 

"Use your teeth." He demanded huskily,  
voice low, merely coherent over the quivering, guilty words spewing from the other side of the confessional booth. 

You whimper, searching for his zipper, dragging your nose across his bulge. You barred your teeth together, clenching them around the zipper, the metallic taste accumulating on your tongue. You pull the zipper down tantalizingly slow, peering up at him virtuously. 

The man paused, stuttering over his words, when he heard the microscopic zilch of Father Ren's zipper coming undone. He flashed you a scolding look and you smiled, earning you an aggressive tug on your hair, as he shifts in his loaf seated position. 

"Continue." He commands the man gruffly, loudly, his baritone voice nearly a roar. "This is a full confession." He warns. 

The man blubbers out a meek, "Yes, Father." And continues to wither away with each culpable divulgence he supplies the flagrant Priest whoms lust is being rendered beyond the elevated, mahogany wall of the booth. 

You complied to his idle order— even though it was intended for the "sinner"— and brought your eloped hands up to roll the top of his black pants down. Revealing his equally as dark boxers, and the toned expanse of his abdomen, that peaks through the bunched-up half of his cassock. 

The cross pendant of the rosary was still embellished into your clasped palms; but you managed to slip two fingers out of your own clasp, and use them to fiddle with the hem of his boxers. He glowered at you, his hazel eyes dark with contempt, as he sneers down at you.

His hand tingled, throbbed, itched to recoil and strike you in the cheek for your crude misbehavior. He kept his fingers interlocked with a strand of your hair to refrain from submitting to his tendencies. 

You untucked his shaft, giggling softly when he growled due to the source of your touch. His red cock was rock solid, heavy, hot and sticky. The head gleamed with a pearly dot of precum. You licked your lips, delving in to swipe the creamy dollop off of his tip, moaning lewdly at the salty flavor it produces. 

Father Ren's breath hitches, fingers combing through your hair, forcefully guiding your mouth to his cock, smothering your face into his throbbing dick. Your tongue glides along the underside, tweaking and twirling at the sensitive areas. He was not keen on your behavior, he loathed a tease: he despised when you were that tease. When he needed you, he needed you now. 

He bucks his hips up, thrusting his cock past your lips, feeling his heavy shaft elicit a gag from you as it slams into your tongue, tip smacking the back of your throat.

You bleated, as he pummels his cock down your throat, hard, robustly, not sparing you a moment to accommodate to his overwhelming size. He hisses in pleasure when you moan around his shaft, sending vibrations and blissful tremors throughout his body. 

"Uh... Father, are you, feeling okay?" The man stops blabbering and asks, concern blossoming in his croaky voice. He was completely oblivious to the obscene events unfolding on the other end of the booth.

His breaths were shallowing, hefty and audible, as he pumps his hips up to ram his cock into your mouth, nails clawing at your scalp, his head crashing back and leaning into the polished mahogany wall. 

"Yes, child." He breathed, masking his airy groan with a sigh. "Continue. Only the Lord and I are listening." He confirms, hiccuping on his breath, staring down at you as you bob your head into his thrusts. 

"I've completed my confession." The man responds bewilderedly. 

"Very well, then." He muses, tongue swiping across his plump lips, as he coos down at you under his breath. "Bring the next parishioner in." He says. 

"Yes, Father." The man chirps, gliding out of the booth, sliding his door open. He left it propped open as he collected the next person to convict themselves as a sinner and plead for remorse from God. 

Father Ren growled once the corridor squeaked and bashed closed, the boisterous thud echoing around the now vacant— other than you and him— grand foyer. 

He snatched you up by your hair, flawlessly lurching you off of the floor. He exchanged positions with you bullishly, springing up from the bench, swiveling you around. His hand remained intertwined with a tendril of your hair, smushing your face into the wall. 

Your frame was compressed into the mahogany pillars, restrained hands pushing into your abdomen. His hands paw and ladle your hips, forcefully guiding them back, lifting your hips from the wall. Leaving you moderately hunched over the bench, compact, crammed into the wall, cheek smushed. 

Father Ren snickers, "My dirty little angel... mm." He purrs, hands slithering up the backs of your thighs, kneading, sliding up your skirt to grope your ass. He supplied you with a hostile, unforgiving spank. You rocked forward, your own hands being pushed into your pelvis, as you gasp. 

His fingers dip into the space between your legs, connecting with your dripping, bare pussy. "You're all wet for me." He observes, running his fingers through your wet slit, collecting your juices as you shudder.

"Who am I, to you, little girl?" He whispers dauntingly in your ear. 

"You're my God." You stutter breathily, warm arousel pooling in your core. 

"Very good. I'm your fucking God." He hisses domineeringly, his hands exploring your waist, caressing down to your hips, as he descended to his knees behind you.

You choked on a moan when his mouth attacked your sex from behind, tongue slurping up your juices, pushing into your entrance and devouring your wetness. Your back arched, soft mewls of pleasure tumbling past your lips, as he grapples with both of your hips to hold you steady— engrossed with the flicks of his tongue, as it sucks up all your juices, and glides around your pussy, drinking you in. 

"God..." You rasp, head lulling on your shoulder. Small whimpers and purrs of bliss crawled up your throat, eyelashes fluttering, quick breaths sputtering from your lips. 

A sound of appreciation rumbled in his chest. He removed his mouth from you to lick the juices off of his plump lips. "Yes?" You could hear his potent smirk, as he chuckles ravenously, his tongue lapping your wetness and dragging it to your clit. 

You moaned richly, wantonly, hips bucking back into his face, as he squeezes them harder, lips sealing around your aching bud. He suckles savagely, tongue flicking and prying, juices spilling from the corners of his lips and staining his cassock, as he ravages your pussy with his tongue and skillful lips. 

"Fuck, you taste like Heaven." He quips darkly, groaning into your heat, inhaling your wetness and stroking your throbbing clit with his tongue. 

Your legs were shaking, trembling, as you teetered towards the edge, rasping out velvety moans, arching your back and smothering his face with your pussy. He pulled you back, guiding your sex deeper into his face, as he delves in with determination, passion. 

"Oh— I'm gonna— I'm gonna cum." You cry out, your knees threatening to buckle underneath you, as the pleasurable warmth plateaued in your core. 

"Do it." He growls into your pussy. "Cum for your God." 

The corridor outside of the confessional booth belches open, leisurely, creaking, just as you reach your peak— your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip forcefully enough to elicit blood, as you stifle your screams of release and douse Father Ren in your juices, convulsing, legs spasming. 

His guttural groan was muffled into your pussy, as he laps it all up, kissing around your abused lips, breaths heavy and labored as he kisses passionately, attentively.

"Um, Father?" An elderly woman questions heedfully, creeping into the foyer cautiously. "I'm here for my confessional."

He pulls away from your sex, both of you panting exuberantly. Cum leaks down your thighs, soaks his face, glistening on the tip of his nose, around his swollen lips, drizzling down his chin. He licked his lips, your juices coating and pooling on his tongue, as he hums grizzly in satisfaction with the flavor. 

"Go ahead and step inside." He directed the woman, his words semi-slurred and breathy. His odiously dark voice still dripped with that formidable... burliness, that left every opposer of his grueling words weak in the knees. 

The woman obliged wordlessly, meekly toppling into the opposite side of the booth. She was nervous. Her distress was nearly palpable, as she fiddled with her fingers in her lap, and evened out her brisk breaths. 

Father Ren ascended to his full, colossal height: towering over you, looming, casting his nefarious, complex shadow over your frame, that still tremors with your appending climax. 

He pivots you around sharply. His untamed irises gleamed with something wickedly scrutinizing. He plopped down onto the bench next to you, belligerently tugging you into his lap. You sighed in pleasure when your ass was greeted with his detrimentally hard cock, poking you through his pants, that he had reclasped just moments before. 

"Begin, child." He instructs the brittle old woman impatiently. "Let the Lord wash away your sins." 

The warm, torrid breaths of his words wafted into your ear, as his lips lowered to your throat; licking and sucking teasingly at your pulse. The woman began rambling about her personal issues, that were infeasibly more drab and bleak than the man from before her. 

As his lips worked at your throat, nibbling, sucking welts, and kissing, his large hand cradled yours— hopelessly bound together with his rosary, that usually dangled virtuously from his neck. He unclasped your hands, leaving the rosary looping and twining around only one of them. The dainty, slender rope, with the small, fragmentary knots, wormed around your fingers. The cross pendent swaying. 

His lips detached leisurely from your throat. He replaced the emptiness with his monstrous, veiny hand instead. Calloused pads of his fingertips applying a threatening amount of pressure to the sides, palm flattening on your pulse. 

"Does my filthy girl want to cum, again?" He coos egregiously into your ear, smirking when you nodded and whimpered without reluctance, pressing your slick thighs together. 

"Good. Because you're going to cum for me again. You're going to cum as many times as your God says you will. Aren't you, angel?"

You nod vigorously, your delighted purr emitting from your throat as a soft growl, as the hand engulfing your throat muffles your needy whimpers. 

"Use your words." He demands huskily.

"Please, God." You whisper back hoarsely, squirming in his lap. "Make me come undone for you... Father." 

He grunts in approval, clicking his tongue. He cups your hand— the rosary beads still eloped around your middle and forefinger— and guides them up your skirt. Skimming your own slick, shiny thighs with your fingertips. Tracing raunchy designs into your stained flesh. 

"God, please forgive me for my sins..." The woman's throaty, culpable voice rings. 

He won't be forgiving me for mine, you thought. Feeling your own fingers that were being mechanized by Father Ren creep closer to your wet, throbbing pussy.

He directed your fingers to your slit, swiping and collecting a pool of your slickness, as he irks you to drag them up and down. You mewl, following his teasingly slow lead, gliding your fingers up, then down, up, then down. The inclination was dizzying. 

"That's right, little slut..." He murmurs into your ear, leading your fingers to dip in the puddle of your wetness, controlling them to drag to your sensitive clit. He directed you in rubbing controlled, methodical circles, as you choked on your breath, your head crashing back into his broad shoulder. 

You shifted your hips up to apply more pressure, and he refused to supply you with that strain you needed in order to come lasciviously disheveled. You whimpered, and he hushed you, his other hand escaping your throat. Two of his long fingers crammed past your lips, thrusting softly. 

You hummed around them, tongue swirling around the calloused pads, drinking in the natural, bawdy taste of his messy fingers. He continued applying pressure and running circles into your clit with your fingers, the cross poking your entrance with each knead.

"I've completed my confessional, Father." The old woman interjects, confused, vigilant. 

He sighs, steering your fingers to your entrance. He gritted his own teeth as he forced you to ease your fingers in, the cross entering with a painful, burning sheathe, slashing on your walls as you winced and cried out. His large hand was circling your wrist, guiding your fingers in with leisure, painstakingly slow thrusts, that caused you to feel every sharp edge and corner of the cross pierce through your core.

"Um, I-I thought this confessional was private? Is there someone else in the room?" She asks, her half of the booth squeaking as she shuffled around sheepishly. 

He snickers, aiding you in picking up your pace. The cross slices your walls, the pain anguishing, the pain perfectly delicious. You curl your fingers to pluck that tender sweet spot, stifling a moan, as his thumb untucks to rub and circle your clit ravenously.

"It's only you, me, and the Lord, child." He promises the woman, rubbing your clit faster, egging your orgasm on, as you scissored your fingers into your burning core, plucking that spot, cross lodged into your hot pussy.

"Do you hear that creaking?" She rasps, bewildered. Referring to the screech of the bench beneath you as you buck your hips into the rhythm of your fingers that he was articulating. 

"I hear nothing." He hisses contemptuously, growing irritated. "Now move along, child. Tell the others that confessionals are canceled for the rest of the evening. They will be held during our next service." 

She mumbled, "Yes, sir." And feebly slid the mahogany door open, gently sealing it closed, scampering out of the foyer to alert everyone of his abrupt, unprecedented change of plans. 

"Oh, God." You wailed, voice quivering and breaking with bliss the second the heavy corridor rattled shut. Your head was lulled back, thrashing on his toned shoulder, as you ascend to your second peak; hanging over the edge, on the brink of release. 

"Thats right. Say my name." 

He forces your own fingers into you deeper, rougher, swifter, thumb kneading and rubbing your clit robustly, cross pendant scratching and barring your burning walls. 

"God!" You repeat, screaming and howling his title, as your orgasm crashed into you like a wave, drowning you in ecstasy. Your hand shot out and clenched around the sleeve of his cassock, hips snapping up lewdly, moans guttural and piercing.

You collapsed limply into his body, limbs weak and frail, as blood and juices gush from your core. He shreds his fingers away from your aching pussy, his clean hand caressing your waist softly, as he brings your soaked fingers into his mouth. 

He moaned into your fingers, tongue gathering all of your juices and blood, swiping along the cross, honey eyes boring through yours as he committed to sucking your digits clean of your egregious acts. 

Once he was satisfied with the cleanliness of your fingers, he released them from his mouth with a wet plop, pecking your temple. "You love the things I do to you, don't you, angel." He murmurs into your skin, lips ghosting your earlobe, kissing gingerly, as he smirks sinisterly.

"Mhm." You coo, pouting, nuzzling your face into the crook of his musk-scented neck. He welcomed you into his condemning, iniquitous embrace. The immoral embrace that you had missed for the past month that you had spent severing ties to the church, and the Lord up above, in general.

Your labored breaths filtered the eerily silent foyer. The mass in the chapel synchronized in benign song, their pure voices ricocheting down the hall, a faint chime. A reminder that Father Ren had an audience to cater to for another hour.

He sighs, smoothing out your tousled hair, caressing the apple of your cheek. You laid calmly for another moment, your shaking legs trembling as they swing in between his, wide and spread mundanely. Your body melted into his, liquidating with post-orgasm fatigue, as you nestle and curl up into his lap. 

"Up." He commands, patting your ass in a subtle gesture to hop off of his lap. You oblige, climbing off of him, sinking into the bench. 

He reacquaints himself with his bible, scooping it up from the bench, skimming through the pages before landing on a specific sector. "Stay here. Read this for me. I'll be back to get you after mass." He says, slipping the bible into your grasp, as you glare up at him and snatch it out of his hands, grumbling curses. 

"Come on." He purrs, stroking your cheek. "Be a good girl for me and do your readings." 

He cocks an earnest brow at you as he adjusts the collar of his cloak, fiddling with his cassock. He pried the sliding door open, shooting you one last exigent glance, before sealing the mahogany slab shut. Leaving you to dwell and indulge in these stupid fucking readings.

You sigh dramatically, propping your aching legs up, feet flat and pressed blatantly into the wall. You flip through the bible, eyes raking in the words, not obtaining a word your vision has perceived.

You aggressively jerk the latticed window open, chucking the bible through the gap, as it thuds into the opposite wall and slams defeatedly onto the floor. 

You slouch back down, crossing your arms, pouting and propping up your legs.

Fuck this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my other one-shots on wattpad and tumblr @ kyloewok.


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